


It's a Date

by honey_beee



Category: House M.D.
Genre: But mostly fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Some angst, Wilson cannot drive a motorcycle, fluff fluff, there's only one bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:14:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24892975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_beee/pseuds/honey_beee
Summary: Twenty years of mutual pinning, two dumbass best friends, one bed.In which Wilson living with House doesn't quite go as expected.ORIf either of them had read fanfiction, they wouldn't be forced to show their feelings. But then why would we be here?
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 108





	1. Day 1

**Author's Note:**

> Death is bad.  
> -House

Wilson

If there was one thing Dr James Wilson knew, it was that fairy tales didn’t exist.  
In fairy tales, the prince defeated the dragon, got the princess and the gold. In fairy tales, the guy got the grant, had lots of friends, and was happy in life. In fairy tales-  
Wilson stopped and sniffed. There was a burning smell in the air.  
In fairy tales, toast didn’t burn.  
Sighing, he pushed himself to his feet, barely sparing a backward glance at his wife, Jocelyn, sleeping on the bed behind him.  
He grabbed a lavender tie from their shared vanity- the whole reason the toast was burnt, and headed downstairs. Yes, the green one he had been wearing was fine, and yes, almost nothing goes with lavender-but House would hate it. The thought brought a smile to Wilson’s face.  
Wilson was one of those men who knew what they wanted, but wouldn’t let themselves have it. The man liked to pretend he was happy, and was rather good at it- which, of course, just made the matter worse.  
A yapping distracted said man, and he looked down to see Jocelyn’s black, shaggy dog, whom she had named (creatively) Spot, after the white spot on its chest. Wilson liked cats better, but happy wife, happy life, right? Right….  
“You’re hungry,” Wilson said distractedly, picking his burnt toast out of the toaster. Had he remembered to close his office windows? The hospital got terribly cold at night, and Wilson hated being cold in the morning. He couldn’t remember- but maybe House had done it. House hated Wilson being cold in the morning, mainly because it involved Wilson stealing his jacket.  
“Woof.”  
Wilson glanced around cautiously.  
The dog was staring, Jocelyn was sleeping, Wilson was waiting for himself to break and feed her dog. But his bag was right there……  
“I’m busy. I forgot,” Wilson said to himself.  
He picked up his bag and almost tip-toed to the door, like a child who knows they shouldn’t be out of bed. He was not entirely sure why his hand was on the doorknob, twisting, why his feet were stepping outside without feeding the dog first. Spite and pettiness and the desperate need to rebel against his marriage were high on the list, should he consider making one. But right now, if he could just be, without thinking of the consequences! For that was yet another thing James Wilson was- constantly more aware and caring about others emotions than his own. Expect for this particular instance, in which something remarkably unusual was happening.  
Spot let out a whine.  
Wilson stared back at the dog, a feeling of recklessness flowing through him. “Sorry,” he whispered, then closed the door.  
Wilson was also something of a bastard. 

Just a Delight

It would be good to clarify, Dr Wilson isn’t a bastard because of this particular, out of character moment of not feeding poor Spot. He’s a bastard because- well, you’ll see.  
But now it is time for us to turn out attention to the pretentious bastard that is Gregory House. Come to think of it, there are several lovable, but moronic bastards in this story, so if that isn’t your thing, best to turn away now.  
House was a world-class doctor, the kind that makes people drive for hours just to see him. He solved unsolvable cases, and as such was at the top of his field (diagnostics), got to go to fancy conferences, and all that jazz. He was also excellent at annoying his dear and only friend Wilson, which is what he was doing now.  
“You’re here early.”  
“Hmm,” Wilson said. House’s eyes narrowed. It was an anomaly, and anomalies would not be tolerated.  
“You fought with your wife.”  
“I’m early to my work, which I love, so of course that means I’m getting divorced,” Wilson said sarcastically.  
“You’re getting divorced?” House said with fake surprise. “If only you loved your wife as much as your work.”  
Wilson shrugged. “You’re here early, too.”  
“So, you’re seeing someone else,” House deadpanned, completely ignoring Wilson’s remark.  
“I never said that!”  
“What about that pretty nurse over there?” he pointed to a tall, dark-haired nurse, who happened to be one of Wilson’s few friends.  
“Thalia? We’re just friends,” Wilson said, exasperated.  
“Does she know that?”  
My God, House’s jealousy could get annoying sometimes.  
“And you’re wearing a purple bow tie,” House said in disgust. “A purple bow tie.”  
“Yes,” said Wilson, pleased House hated it. “I think it brings out my eyes.”  
“It brings out your idiocy,” House muttered. He raised his voice and said: “Definitely trying to impress someone.” Piss off would be okay, too.  
“House!” An angry woman stormed up beside the two friends. “You can’t give out new hearts whenever you feel like it! Especially when you don’t have permission!” Said angry woman was Lisa Cuddy, the Dean of Medicine and the hospital administrator of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, where the two worked.  
It would be a balent lie to say House didn’t like infuriating her. Rather, he liked it when she was infuriated, but didn’t mind if he was the one who had done the deed or not. Quite unlike the case with Wilson- but House shoved that thought away before it could form.  
“Morning, Cuddy,” Wilson said wearily.  
“Morning, Wilson,” Cuddy said, her tone briefly civilized. She turned back to House. “She’s bulimic and suicidal!”  
“I thought we didn’t discriminate,” House said innocently.  
“We do when we give hearts, House, they don’t grow on trees!”  
“My bad, I’ll just let her wither away in a hospital bed.”  
“You are not giving her a new heart,” Cuddy walked off, heels clicking on the floor, glaring at House all the while.  
“Isn’t she just a delight,” House remarked sourly.  
“Stop pretending to be bitter, you’ll find a way around it,” said Wilson, who knew House was just as much a delight every day of his life.  
“But I ran out of booze in my office, how could I possibly solve the case with no heart and no alcohol?” House whined, satisfied Wilson was beginning to look annoyed.  
“The same way you survive without a heart every day,” Wilson said, stopping at his office.  
“That’s harsh, Wilson. Real harsh,” House clutched his chest. “Ah, Chase!” He turned to one of his minions/ dianostition team, who had just stepped off the elevator, and was looking like he regretted it. “You have some experience sneaking alcohol into work, don’t you?”  
“I-uh-” Robert Chase raised an eyebrow. By this time, they’d all learned not to argue with House.  
“Good, get me something strong,” House clapped Chase on the shoulder and hobbled away.  
“Good luck,” Wilson said, arranging his face to look sympathetic.  
House smirked. Wilson pretending he wasn’t just as screwed up as him was rather endearing. “Good luck,” he mocked, in a high, shrill voice under his breath as he limped away. (An injury years before had resulted in him losing the use of most of his right leg.) As if Wilson didn’t have alcohol in his office. Mainly for House, now that he thought about it. The amount of liquid in the bottle never changed every time House broke in and helped himself. He was probably saving it for his girlfriend now.  
The purple tie, though….that was something he’d have to work on. Well, he’d just watch Wilson during lunch and see who he was dating then. If House was lucky- and House would be, as he wouldn’t take no for an answer- he’d take some of Wilson’s fries. The thought brought a smile to his face.  
Satisfied with this plan to stalk his best friend, House was ready to face the day. 

Meet the Crew

It was uncertain whether the day was ready to face House.  
If the day was House’s diagnostic team, it was most definite they weren’t ready.  
“40 something-year-old man with commitment issues shows up to work early and wearing a purple tie,” House said as he limped into the room. “Differential diagnosis. Besides that obvious lack of fashion sense, of course.”  
Eric Foreman, the second member of House’s team, raised his eyebrows. “This is for a patient?”  
“Of a sort.”  
“He could be trying to impress someone at work,” Alison Cameron, the third diagnostician, suggested.  
“Exactly,” House agreed, who, of course, was just looking for someone to say he was right. “But who?”  
“We’re talking about Wilson, aren’t we,” Chase said flatly.  
“Wilson’s married,” Cameron said, always the believer of love.  
“Eh. Third wives are practically hookers,” House sat down at the long table. Cameron fixed him with a glare.  
“Here’s the file for an actual patient,” Foreman set a file down in front of House. “Vomiting, stomach pain…”

It’s Not a Date

Wilson had been talking about death for hours.  
Years, really. Death was part of being a doctor, droning on and on about risks and content forms, trying to sooth hearts that would never really be at peace- it was part of the job. Realy, that was all his job was- trying and usually failing to stop Death.  
But admittedly not his favorite. You could say he welcomed distractions, and distractions were more than happy to show up.  
“Knock knock,” House said, strolling into Wison’s office (without knocking, despite having said the words).  
“House,” Wilson said, exasperated. “I’m with a patient.”  
“So I see, but I’m much more interesting.”  
It wasn’t like this was a lie, but Wilson glared at him anyway.  
“I got dinner reservations.”  
The old woman he had been speaking with stood up. “Should I leave you two alone?”  
“House...I...I don’t know what to say,” Wilson said honestly. Both of them ignored the woman.  
“Yeah. Well. Have fun with your wife,” House began to walk out of the room.  
“With my wife?”  
“Are you not married?” House raised his eyebrows. “You thought I was asking you on a date?” He began to laugh.  
In truth, this is exactly what Wison thought- not like he was going to admit that to House. “No,” he said, too quickly.  
“Well, as fun as that would be, it wouldn’t be fun at all.” House, still chucking, left the office. “It’s at eight, by the way!”  
“You must excuse Dr House,” Wilson mumbled, putting emphasis on the ‘Dr’ part to indicate that the man who had so rudely interrupted them was indeed a trained professional. Maybe he should bust out that acahool he kept for House.  
“So- I only have four months to live?” the old woman said, turning his attention back to her. Wilson glanced at his watch. It was four o-clock. And I only have four hours, he thought.  
He put his smile on and went back to work. 

Ridiculous 

Wilson didn’t even change. He wore his work clothes, minus the purple tie. That one was just for House.  
That was the problem, he thought despairingly. Jocelyn would compliment him, not insult him. Damn.  
House had really affected him. He glared at the road.  
“I love my wife,” Wilson said out loud, very unconvincingly. “Jocelyn is great, there’s alot of great things about her...there's her, um, her nice-ness. Very...very nice niceness- my God, this is hopeless!” Wilson slammed her head on the steering wheel. It was a red light, anyway.  
House would have complained about the food, and Wilson’s outfit, and they would have ridden his motorcycle-  
“Stop,” Wilson said to himself. “This is downright ridiculous.”  
Love always was. 

Shoes

Wilson did love his wife, once.  
It was like she was a nice pair of shoes. Wilson loved the shoes, and even though they were expensive, he bought them, because he loved them. But when he tried them on, the size wasn’t what it said in the box. Or maybe Wilson’s foot size kept changing. But regardless, the shoes didn’t fit.  
He wanted them to fit desperately. He wanted it more than anything. He kept trying to make the shoes fit, but often got so frustrated he ended up hating the shoes and himself. Who was to say the shoes were the ones in the wrong? Or for that matter, the feet? Neither of them knew anything but that they weren’t right for each other.  
But Wilson wanted them to fit, and he could still remember how wonderful things were before he had walked a long way in them and realized they didn’t fit. So he stayed, because he made a promise to love the shoes, even at the cost of him actually being able to wear them.  
Wilson yanked the keys out of the car and just sat for a moment. He gazed up at the restaurant. House had chosen well- Jocelyn loved steak and grill, and this was a nice one, at that. Wilson tolerated it.  
Of course he chose this. Some part of him wondered if House was trying to break them up. Others wondered why Wilson would want that.  
I don’t, Wilson told himself. He was getting rather good at lying to himself.  
Wilson shut down those thoughts and got out of the car. 

A Bad Date

“Thank you for making these reservations. That was so nice of you,” Jocelyn said happily. Her hair was much more brushed than it was this morning. Her voice was high and clear, but there was something that seemed almost sickly about it. Wilson sighed- if he could just hold on for an hour more, they would drive home in silence. Wilson would stay in his office, and Jocelyn would put on a movie he hated. They could go back to that infuriating circle- awful, yes, but probably the best Wilson was going to get. Jocelyn paused. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”  
Wilson shook his head. “No.” I love my wife. And he did. He did the way one loves a TV show before there were too many seasons, or a restaurant before they stopped serving your favorite food. He loved what they were. He forced himself to stand what they are..  
“So,” Jocelyn tried again. “How’s your food?”  
Wilson looked down at his steak and wine. He didn’t like the heavy meat- he should have gone with chicken and a salad instead. Oh, well. “Good. How’s yours?”  
“Good.”  
An awkward silence smothered the table. Wilson was positive everyone around them was wondering why the couple at table 7 didn’t talk.  
“How was work?” Jocelyn asked coolly- Wilson could tell by her pursed lips and titled head she was beginning to get annoyed.  
“Good. Yours?”  
“Good,” she said flatly. Wilson looked into her heart-shaped face, short black hair framing it. Her eyes stared fixedly at the table. Why was he like this? With an effort, Wilson pulled himself together.  
“Did you have that show you were talking about?”  
Jocelyn’s face lit up. “Yeah, actually..” She began to talk lots of garbled words about flowers. Wilson was sure doctor-talk made as little sense to her as florist-talk did to him, but for some reason, it pissed him off tonight.  
“I forgot to feed the dog,” Wilson said suddenly, looking up. He didn’t know why he did it- why didn’t he come completely clean about “forgetting”, as long as they were on the subject. But the urge was just as strong and irrational as it had been that morning. He hated the circle. He hated trying to love, trying to fix something that just couldn’t be fixed.  
“You...okay…” Jocelyn said cautiously.  
“Okay,” Wilson said firmly.  
“Yeah? It’s okay, I came back at lunch to feed him. He looked hungry.”  
“Okay,” Wilson repeated. He wanted an argument. He was pulling a House- pushing and prodding and poking until people went off.  
“Anyway, as I was saying, this one guy is like-”  
“I didn’t forget to feed the dog,” Wilson blurted.  
Jocelyn studied him for a moment. “What the hell is up with you, James?”  
“I didn’t forget to feed the dog. I saw Spot, and I saw he was hungry, and I left.”  
“Why?” Dismas was etched on her wife’s face. He remembered her face when they had first met- and her small frame in a wedding gown- Wilson holding her hand, oh, why didn’t he pull away?- a rising feeling of horror was consuming him, something he couldn’t control, some monster that was somehow linked to House laughing: “You thought I was asking you on a date?”  
“Because I was angry at you! I am angry at you!”  
“First of all, do not bring Spot into your marriage issues!” Jocelyn almost yelled. It always amazed Wilson how Jocelyn almost never yelled. The entire restaurant was staring at them now. “Second, why were you mad at me? You’ve been distant all week! You’ve gone to dinner with Greg more than me!”  
“Do not bring House into our marriage issues!”  
“House is our marriage issue!” Jocelyn said angrily. “He’s more of your partner than I am!”  
“Well- I’ve known him for a long time! He’s my best friend!” Wilson fumbled.  
“I’m your wife!” She stopped. “And I don’t want to be second best to some grumpy doctor you have a crush on.” She stopped, tears running down her face. “I’d love to say this isn’t the man I married. I’d love to ask ‘Who are you?’, but…” shaking her hand, she stood up, pale face still red from the crying and yelling, and stormed out, leaving Wilson to pay the check. 

Sorry

It didn’t take long to pack. Some socks, underwear, dress shirts and pants, normal shirts and sweats. A candy striped tie, a polka dot bow tie, and a lime green bowler hat. A hair dryer, Wilson’s collection of hand creams, and all his dreams. You know, the usual.  
The thing was, this was usual. Normal was this suitcase in House’s living room. It’s probably been there more than the closet here, Wilson grumbled to himself.  
Jocelyn wasn’t home yet. Spot had jumped on Wilson when he arrived. The house felt like something wonderful that had rotted, like spoiled honey or dead puppies or beloved childhood toys left out in the rain.  
Now...Wilson stared at the door- it looked exactly the same as it did this morning, yet everything had changed.  
He looked at Spot, standing next to him and whining. He pet the dog’s soft fur. Everything looked right, but felt wrong.  
He heard Jocelyn’s voice echoing through his head: who are you?  
He looked down at Spot, tail thumping hopefully.  
“I’m...sorry.”  
And with that, he opened the door, and stepped out into the night. 

Liferaft

House wasn’t surprised when Wilson knocked on the door. His hair was damp- it was drizzling outside- and his car was already parked in the driveway.  
“Look what the cat dragged in,” he said, almost humorously.  
“I need a place to stay,” Wilson said softly.  
“Divorced yet?” House stepped aside to let Wilson in.  
Wilson said nothing, merely stared at the floor. “Can I sleep on the couch?” He stopped in the living room, while House continued walking.  
“As long as you make pancakes in the morning!” House shouted back from the kitchen. He returned, carrying a bowl of microwaved spaghetti, which he handed to Wilson. “I like the ones with macadamia nuts.”  
Wilson said nothing, merely set his suitcase and himself on the couch.  
“We’ve never had a fight like this before,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve never, at least.”  
There was a long pause, in which Wilson picked up the fork and bowl, but did not eat.  
“She wasn’t...mad. Well, she was, and she was sad, but she was still….”  
“Sexy? Beguiling?” House suggested. “You know, it’s really not healthy to be attracted to fighting.”  
Says House, with his addiction to conflict. Wilson would laugh if he wasn’t so sad.  
Wilson shook his head. “Honest. She said some things about me, that wasn’t necessarily bad..” Expect they were. “Or mean…” Not intentionally. “But honest, and that made it hurt more.”  
“I don’t want to be second best to some grumpy doctor you have a crush on.”  
House stood up, and gently sat back down next to Wilson. Presently, Wilson became aware that House’s rough hand was entwined with his, and he squeezed it tighter, as if they were both sinking, but each other’s liferaft.


	2. Day 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am well aware this is not quite how motorcycles work. For the sake of the fluff, please bear with me.

Morning 

House woke up to the sound of a bulldozer knocking over his house.  
Oh, wait. That’s only what it sounded like, in the even harsher reality, it was- House raised his head and groaned.  
Wilson’s hair dryer.  
It was at times like this House wanted two bathrooms in the house, but this was only temporary- (Right?), and there was no need for one man to have two bathrooms.  
“Sorry!” Wilson almost yelled over the noise. “Did I wake you up?”  
House staggered to his feet, walking over to the bathroom. “Are you fucking kidding me?” In response, Wilson turned the hairdryer onto House’s face.  
House would be lying if he said he disliked the way the warm air tickled his hair and face, but he would rather die than let Wilson know that, so he roughly shoved the hairdryer back at Wilson instead.  
“You didn’t make pancakes,” he accused.  
“I-”  
“Have no excuse,” House declared dramatically. “I’m afraid our living agreement will have to be terminated.”  
Wilson almost dropped the hairdryer. “You can’t be serious.”  
“I will be if those pancakes don’t get made soon,” House grumbled, and started limping down the stairs. 

The Weight of Spot

Wilson was not doing well.  
His last patient only had five months to live- and the look on their face? Fear, panic, sadness, horror, exhaustion.  
Wilson could relate to that. He felt all those things, plus some, when he looked at House. (Let’s face it: that man was basically a death sentence.) But there was something else in there, something stronger than them both jumbled in the mix, that Wilson did not want to name. So, he turned tail and ran. Maybe that was why he was so tired.  
Besides that, there was the matter of Spot. (And Jocelyn.) The big black dog seemed to haunt every shadow, hiding between files and behind doors.  
He hadn’t fed the dog.  
And then he separated from his wife. (Right? Or was it just one fight? It was impossible to tell if she would call him, crying and asking him back, or never talk to him again. Wilson suspected the latter. Jocelyn was very good at holding grudges)  
But Wilson didn’t feed the dog; he had wanted her to be angry.  
What was he doing? You can’t change your fate- Wilson had been alive long enough to know that. The story was already set, it seemed foolish and absurd to even attempt to play out of character.  
So why had he?  
Wilson already knew the answer: he didn’t want whatever was set in store for him. (Likely, another cute girl in a bar, him proposing, a wedding, panic, fights, screaming, divorce.) And trying to change that was just fruitless and painful.  
But he kept trying anyway.  
“Wilson!” a voice echoed behind him. Reluctantly, Wilson turned around. “Remember how you can never make a relationship work and how all three of your marriages have ended in divorce?”  
Wilson pursed his lips and glared at House.  
“House…”  
“Well, wonder if I’m better than you no more!” House almost shouted in triumph. “I got us dates.”  
“I-what-dates?” Wilson sputtered. House blinked. “That’s what I said, yes.”  
“House, I literally got out of my wife’s house yesterday. I don’t even know if we’re actually separated, or-”  
“Psh, you’ve hated each other for years,” House dismissed. “I thought we were finally acknowledging it. He was one to talk, Wilson grumbled to himself. Then again, he knew House was insensitive for years. It wouldn’t hurt (that much) to play along with this.  
“Listen, you said I can’t make any relationship work,” House said, smirking. “But I say you can’t make anyone with a woman work either. Hence, the dates.”  
“Gonna need a little more than that to go on,” Wilson frowned, arms crossed.  
“We go on this double-date. I’ll have wild success, and you’ll be miserable. I prove to you I’m romantic- or, in a stunningly stupid turn of events, you do the same. Whoever scores takes the other’s clinic duty.”  
Wilson blinked. “Wow. You must be really sure I can’t do this if you’re betting clinic duty.”  
House spread his arms, as if to welcome the challenge. “I’m almost always right eventually.”  
“Operative words there being almost and eventually,” Wilson reminded him.  
House shrugged. “We’ll find out. Or are you too scared?”  
“Too scared?” Wilson almost laughed. “Of what?”  
“A reminder you’ll be alone all your life staring you in the face.”  
“Wow. Challenge accepted,” Wilson said, a bit cockily.  
“Good. Be done with work at five, date’s at six.”  
“Doctor’s schedules don’t really work like that,” Wilson mumbled, but he knew he would be there all the same. He sighed, and turned back to a patient’s files, wondering how many times House could make it sound like he was asking Wilson out. 

Yet Another Bad Date

Wilson was certain that this would not end well.  
When had a double date with House ever worked out?  
Well. It wasn’t like he had tried before- probably because House was going to yell at the waiter or poison the wine or something.  
It was too late now, Wilson reflected, arms grasped tightly around House’s waist. He did not enjoy driving on the death trap motorcycle- it was loud, uncomfortable, unsafe, and- what was that?  
Wilson clenched his teeth as another motorcycle whizzed past.  
“You’re such a baby!” House shouted over the wind. He paused. “We’re almost here, anyway.” They slowed down and pulled into the parking lot of...Al’s Steak World?  
“Al’s Steak World,” Wilson repeated slowly, climbing off the vehicle. “This looks like the gateway to hell.”  
“This is worse than hell,” House agreed darkly. “My next case is probably going to be caused by this place. But I used my good steak restaurant reservation on you and your wife.”  
“I think we’re getting divorced,” Wilson murmured, but he was too busy trying to figure out what House meant to really care.  
He looked up when two women- a blonde and a brunette- strode up to them.  
“Ah, our dates,” House said charismatically, brushing off how their gazes settled on his bad leg. “Lovely seeing you here. Shall we?” Hanging back to Wilson, he said: “The blonde’s mine.”  
“You like brunettes,” Wilson whispered back, but moved along all the same. He noticed House was limping worse than normal, and his face was tight and gaunt.  
“Er-hello,” he said to them as they walked up to the restaurant. He felt rather uncomfortable: this really had been a bad idea. At least he was with House this time; that was an improvement.  
“Hi,” both of them said shyly. They looked at each other and giggled.  
“I’m Kate,” the dark-haired one said boldly.  
“Monica,” the blonde woman said. “It’s nice to meet you.”  
Wilson turned to House, who was rubbing his leg. He only did that when he was in extreme pain- hand in a fist, knuckles going up and down and up and down the muscle.  
“And you are..” one of the women- the dark-haired one- prompted House.  
“In chronic pain,” he said. “Excuse me if I don’t small-talk.”  
More tittering. Wilson felt a rush of rage- as if this pain was funny? That he somehow managed to suppress. He needed to be the civil one here.  
“Let’s sit,” he said, and guided them all to a booth by the kitchens. Wilson hung back with the steady thumping of House’s cane. “Are you alright?” he muttered.  
“Fine,” House said tightly. Stubborn bastard.  
“I’m James, and this is Greg,” Wilson said, as pleasantly as he could manage.  
‘Greg’ coughed. Wilson felt a small smile grow on his face- House hated being called by his first name, even by his own mother.  
“Yes, I’m Greg,” House grumbled. Wilson had a feeling there would be lots of grumbling tonight.  
“Hello there, I’m Chris, and I'll be your waiter tonight,” a young man appeared at House’s elbow. “Can I get you started on some drinks?”  
“Hi, I’ll have your strongest bottle of gin,” House said. (Wilson was positive he was more of a whiskey guy.)  
There were a few raised eyebrows.  
“Oo, I like a man who can drink,” Kate laughed, tossing her blonde hair.  
“And I like a man who can drive,” Wilson said pointedly to House (causing a confused look from the two women), that he paid no mind to.  
“What for the rest of you?” The man said pleasantly; this probably wasn’t the oddest thing he had seen all day.  
“Just water, please,” Wilson said with a grimace.  
“Me, too,” Monica said. She seemed nice- maybe, if House could restrain himself, this date could go alright.  
“I’ll have an Americano with three shots of espresso and one of gin,” Kate declared. Wilson wasn’t the biggest coffee person, but that seems like mangling the drink.  
“So, what do you do?” House asked. “Oh, wait- let me guess. Your earrings tell me you’ve traveled, your handbag tells me you’re wealthy. Your drink tells me you know how to party and expect to get what you want.” Something could be said for her privilege and lack of wit, Wilson mused to himself. But for once, House didn’t point that out. “You’re a social media person, aren’t you?”  
“That’s amazing!” She gushed. Yes, ‘social media person’ is amazing wording. “You’re right, I’m an influencer, I just traveled for this amazing conference. What about you?”  
“Oh,” House said breezily. “I’m a diagnostician. I solve cases no one else can- save lives, the usual.”  
“Wow,” Kate said, looking at House adoringly. “That’s so romantic.”  
“Yeah,” House agreed. “It’s just about the humanity, you know? I see a patient, and I’m like, I need to save that person’s life, so they can go home to their kids.”  
Bullshit! Wilson was tempted to yell, but that would probably just create more problems than solve.  
“What about you?” Monica asked Wilson.  
“Ah, I’m just a lowly oncologist. Cancer,” he added, at her confused look.  
She nodded; there was a moment of silence at the table until House’s phone rang.  
‘It’s Chase,” he muttered to Wilson.  
“You’ve reached doctor House, and he can’t talk right now!” House said to the phone. “Oh. Well, where is the rash?”  
There was a pause. “Hm. Any problem peeing? Because I’m a genius,” he said, presumably to how did you know? “Test for all UTIs you can think of, and do another MRI. Yes, I’m sure- have you forgotten who you’re talking to?”  
He hung up.  
“This is what happens when you leave the kids home alone,” he said crossly to Wilson, “They start thinking it’s neurological, and want to do a biopsy.”  
“Oh.” Kate said stiffly. “You have kids?”  
“Oh, God, no,” House shuddered. “Just an unruly family of doctors.” Wilson knew House was kidding, but he thought it was kind of sweet for him to refer to Cameron, Foreman and Chase as his family.  
Monica and Kate exchanged looks Wilson couldn’t read.  
“I’m going to the bathroom,” Monica excused herself.  
“Oh, I’ll come, too,” Kate said with a wink. She followed Monica out of the booth and down to the bathroom.  
“What is it with girls always going to the bathroom in groups?” House mumbled. Wilson was relieved. This date wasn’t going well (had he called it, or what?), and House was clearly in pain. His eyes lingered, unfocused, at the table, and he popped another Vicodin.  
Wilson picked his fork up, and dropped it. He had been in a restaurant like this just yesterday. It was official: grill restaurants brought him bad luck. Or caused bad luck. Whatever.  
“House,” he said in a low voice. “Please, let’s go.”  
“And give up the girl? No way,” House said flatly.  
“House-” Wilson tried to reason. “You’re in pain, it’s going to be hard for you to drive, I don’t care about the bet, I’ll take clinic duty.”  
When House opened his mouth to argue, he pressed on. “This isn’t about Kate or Monica, it’s about you trying to prove something.”  
“Yeah, that you can’t make a relationship with a woman work!”  
“Why do you care?!” Wilson spat.  
The fire went out House’s eyes. They both sat there for a moment, staring in grim silence at the two empty seats across from them. Wilson raised a finger to his chest. This was the feeling he was running from- dread, anger, yet hope and something else, something that tore him apart, but that ache was the best thing he’d ever felt.  
“I’m going to go find them,” House mumbled, and stumbled off to the bathroom. It was a little creepy, but Wilson suddenly felt so tired he didn’t care.  
He sat there for awhile, staring at House’s disgusting gin and wondering if he should drink some.  
“It appears we’ve been ditched,” House grumbled several minutes later, returning to the booth.  
Wilson raised his eyebrows. “What? Did they leave, or did you kill them, or-”  
“They’re in the bathroom, making out.”  
“Oh.” Wilson stared at his noodles. “You went into the woman’s bathroom?”  
“That’s what you’re taking away from this?” Without waiting for an answer, House pressed on. “Let’s go. You’re paying.”  
With a sigh, Wilson looked down to the bill. All these awful dates were really making a dent in his pocket. 

The Window Incident 

The parking lot was cold and dark. Wilson shivered and pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders.  
House was limping ahead of him- he must really be in pain- and suddenly stopped. Wilson’s heart stopped with it.  
“Oh no.”  
House stared at his motorcycle for a second, then put his helmet on and sat down.  
“House- no.” Wilson said firmly. “You’re in pain, you cannot drive a motorcycle.”  
House looked up. “Neither can you.”  
They sat in this for a second; then: “There’s no time like the present.” Let it be known: Wilson disliked motorcycles. Not as much as monster trucks, but he thought they were loud and annoying and just another way for middle-aged men to needlessly assert their masculinity. Besides that, he had no experience driving one, and it didn’t seem like something one could learn easily. On the other hand, there was no fucking way House was driving in his condition.  
“No,” House said at once. “I am not letting you crash my motorcycle.”  
“First off, I paid for it, second, which is safer: the cripple drug addict in chronic pain driving, or the clueless yet adorable one driving?”  
“First,” House retorted, “I stole your money, so that doesn't count as paying for it, second, as the one who knows who to drive, I think I would be safer.”  
“No,” Wilson grabbed a helmet and put it on. “Move over.”  
House glared, and Wilson glared right back.  
“Fine,” House broke, and scooched back on the motorcycle, rubbing his leg and grimacing all the while.  
Wilson, being a doctor, was rather familiar with diagnosing. (Although to be fair, most of his diagnosing involved looking at a scan, but still.) One of the things he was best at was House. Symptoms: irritable, snappy, stubborn, rude, sarcastic. It all looked the same. But when you pay just a bit more attention, you see the other things- the leg rubbing, the gin, responding significantly slower or faster than normal, eyes always looking to the ceiling, as if searching for some God to pray to. This wasn’t just normal House, this was in-extreme-pain-House.  
“That’s the throttle,” he grunted, pointing to the right handlebar. “You turn it towards you, and it goes vroom vroom.”  
Wilson nodded, and carefully swung a leg over the motorcycle.  
“That’s a handbrake, that’s the rear brake,” he continued. Wilson’s nose was dripping, he shivered.  
“What’s that?” he gestured to the left side of the motorcycle.  
“Gears. You won’t need that.”  
“I...won’t?” Not like Wilson knew anything about motorcycles, but he was pretty sure they needed the gears. On the other hand, the route they were taking was long and flat, with no stoplights.  
“Let’s go,” House prodded. He reached over, behind Wilson’s shoulder, and pressed the start button. He could feel it vibrating underneath him.  
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. But House was in pain- he couldn’t back out now, no matter how dumb it was. He would just go slow. That would be fine, right?  
Wilson grabbed the accelerator and twisted it towards him. The engine roared again. Carefully, he pulled both feet up, keeping his shoulders straight, and the machine went forward with a low humming sound. Wilson’s arms trembled, he lost his balance and the machine jerked to the side.  
“Careful!” House shouted, and put his hands on the handlebar, helping Wilson steer.  
“Oh my God,” Wilson whined. First things first- get out of the parking lot.  
“Turn to the left,” House said loudly.  
“Okay,” he whimpered. Keeping his hand on the throttle, they slowly went down the curb, turning left.  
“Left again!” House shouted. “And don’t put the breaks on when you turn!”  
“I know!” Wilson yelled back. Over the rush of vehicles pulling in and out of the surrounding restaurants and strip malls, he could barely hear anything. Well, just a moment longer, and he would be in the safe(r) suburban road. Checking for other cars, he carefully turned left again, onto a dark, straight road.  
“This is awful,” Wilson moaned. Streetlights illuminated the road- on each side, he could see towering trees next to small houses with white picket fences. His balance was all off and he could barely keep the vehicle straight.  
“You didn’t put your turn signal on,” House said sourly. “This is why I didn’t want you to drive!”  
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Wilson huffed. “I didn’t know you cared about the rules now.”  
“I do when they mean my life!”  
“If you cared so much, so should have sucked up your pride and left earlier, before it got so bad!”  
“If I could control my pain, I would!”  
“You can’t control your pain, but you can control your actions!” Wilson almost yelled.  
“What?”  
“I said, you can’t control your pain, but you can control your-”  
“What?”  
“Oh my God, you are so immature!”  
“Just leave me alone, Mom,” House yelled back, and Wilson saw his arm move forward.  
“What are you doing?”  
“Go faster!”  
“Are you kidding me?”  
“What are you, six?” House’s fingers grasped the accelerator, and the two shot forward with a jolt.  
“House!” Wilson shrieked. “House!”  
House’s hand remained firmly on the accelerator, clamping Wilson’s underneath it.  
“Almost there!” he started slowing down near their home.  
“The garage is closed!” Wilson panicked- there was no room beside his own car to park the motorcycle. Oh, if he could just hold on a little longer!  
“Back gate should be open,” House grunted, bringing the machine up into the backyard, through the open wooden gate, driving on the grass- the patio was right there, there was room to park-  
“House!” He had pulled the throttle again, surging them forward- Wilson saw the living room window coming closer and closer, and tried to push his arm away, but then House’s shoulders twisted and they swerved horribly-  
Wilson lost his balance and fell flat on the ground. There was a pause, then the sound of breaking glass over all Wilson’s swearing.  
Since there’s a trained medical professional on the scene, House felt justified in checking the damage done to the house first.  
A tall urn of flowers- so foolishly placed (by Wilson) in front of the window- had been knocked over by the motorcycle and into the window, smashing the glass and producing a gaping hole.  
“Hello?” Wilson was on the ground, unharmed save his trust, and a graze on his cheek. “What the hell?”  
“Buck up, falling off an almost-parked motorcycle never hurt anybody,” House said grumpily, circling the window. “The window, on the other hand….”  
“Oh, no,” Wilson said sourly. “If only you had listened to virtually anybody. You can’t go that fast, House, you could really get hurt. Or you could have just opened the garage!” He waved his arms and pushed himself to his feet. “It wasn’t that hard.”  
“Didn’t have the opener with me,” House dismissed.  
He gave a great sigh, and was tempted by leaving Wilson there. But House had seized control, and brought them on that awful date. (Plus, a pissy Wilson was one of limited entertainment value.)  
So, he bent down as much as he could, turning his good shoulder to Wilson. He wasn’t offering or anything- but Wilson took it, helping haul him to his feet. Since Wilson was heavy, it only made sense to wrap an arm around him, and together they hobbled through the (partially destroyed) sliding door and collapsed onto the couch.  
House had gotten so good at not touching patients, he sometimes forgot how solid and warm they are, and how their hair tickles his neck. Wilson was warm through his shirt, and smelled faintly of nurse-chasing college. He set Wilson down on the couch, almost falling onto him  
“Ug,” Wilson groaned, turning his glare on his friend. “House, seriously!”  
“I am serious.”  
“What was that?” Wilson protested. “We could have died- for what?”  
“First off, I always say, if you’re going to die, do it while hijacking the controls from a motorcycle driver who doesn’t know how to drive,” House pushed himself to his feet, and stumbled towards the dining room table. He seized the little orange bottle on it and popped three pills. “Second, you fell off a parked vehicle. That one’s on you.”  
“You know what I think?” Wilson crossed his arms. “I think that you just wanted to prove that you’re such a heterosexual, hyper-masculine bro dude who can control everything.”  
“I am a bro dude,” House protested. “And what I did was fine- it’s not like you can just learn to drive a motorcycle the first time you try.”  
Wilson chuckled, noticing how he left out the straight part. “No, you’re not. You’ve just been dumped so many times, and made so many gay jokes you need a way to prove how strong and straight you are. And you” he pointed his finger at House- “Didn’t trust me, so you tried to take control.”  
He shouldn’t have trusted me in that instance, Wilson growled to himself. But it wasn’t like he could have done any better in this state.  
Then: “I don’t have to prove myself to you,” he growled.  
“Exactly!” Wilson yelled, exasperated. “You don’t have to prove anything, I already know you better than you pretend.”  
House actually looked surprised for a moment.  
“This conversation is over,” he stomped off to the kitchen. For a moment, Wilson thought he had driven him off, but House returned a moment later with an ice pack.  
“Here,” he handed it roughly to Wilson and sat next to him.  
“...Thank you,” Wilson said, taken back. “But I’m still mad.”  
House ignored this. “You also have a cut,” he pointed to Wilson’s face, where there was a scrape on his cheek.  
“So I do,” Wilson said sulkily, but he knew this was House’s way of apologizing. Not ideal, but he’d take what he could get.  
“Best to minimize the damage,” House said softly. He knew Wilson was just being a baby about the whole thing. But cuts could get infected, and infections could lead to death, and death was bad.  
Gently, House’s fingers moved closer and closer, until they were resting lightly on Wilson’s face. He ran a fingertip down the length of the cut, but his eyes were fixed on Wilson, who looked, for lack of better word, dumbfounded.  
“Are you…. caring?” Wilson said in disbelief.  
“No, plotting,” House corrected, as calmly as he could. A tiny smile tugged at the corner of Wilson’s lips.  
“Ah, My mistake.”  
House a smile grow on his face, like some horrible skin condition. What was he doing? Alarms suddenly seemed to go off in his head. “I’m going to bed,” he jumped to his feet (or did his best, considering the cane.) “There’s an extra blanket in the hall closet if you need it.”  
“Wait- where are you going?”  
“Bed.” House stopped at the bottom of the stairs, looking at Wilson. “Did you not catch that part of ‘goodnight’?”  
“But- it’s freezing out!” Wilson gestured to the broken window. “It’s going to get down below ten tonight!”  
House shrugged. “Well, you’re not staying with me, that’s for sure.”  
“Why not? Your bed is big enough for both of us.”  
House chuckled. “Cuddle time with Wilson? I’ll pass.” And with that, he retreated up the stairs.  
“I cannot believe him,” Wilson grumped, flinging glass off the blankets. But he couldn’t help think of House’s fingers, touching his face. The smile that bloomed on his face, the look in his eyes- oddly...tender.  
Wilson rolled over and went to sleep.

Cold

Sleep did not last long.  
The cold crept in- not that it was exactly hard, considering the giant hole in the wall. Wilson drew his legs to his chest, thinking longingly of his blow dryer. It seemed so long ago, but just last morning he had been bathing the luxury- dressed in warm clothes, having a loving wife, and blowing warm air onto his scalp.  
Wilson shivered. Well, even then, his life hadn’t been exactly perfect. There was the wife thing, for one. They argued constantly- about what to eat, when to walk the dog, how often to eat out, why didn’t he go to her shows? Why did he spend more time with House than her?  
It pained him to admit he had once cheated on her. Yes, she had cheated on him, too, but still- he should have controlled his own actions.  
He had been younger than, and desperately trying to find the soulmate part of marriage. He had heard it was a wonderful thing, that the dishes and laundry and occasional argument more than made up for it. That marriage was built on trust, and hope, and choosing to love someone. It seemed like an odd, but wonderful idea- to be with just one person your entire life?  
But it wasn’t the dishes, or laundry, or an occasional argument that made Wilson crack.  
He was just tired- tired of dancing around the house as to not run into each other, tired of his suitcase constantly being out, tired of the smell of her fucking shampoo.  
He supposed that was why she cheated, too- they had tried the dream and ended up with a nightmare, like a diy project gone wrong. He was tired of pretending he loved her.  
Unfortunately, Wilson had never acted on this conclusion, and it was making him miserable.  
House was different.  
He was utterly miserable, yes. A pain in the ass, yes. Selfish, arrogant, condescending- yes. But he was also so terribly afraid, and so sad, and in a twisted way, it made Wilson feel as though he wasn’t the only one.  
Wilson was afraid that this pain- the one that sat in his chest all day, and all night- might never end, and to this day, he has not quite reached a conclusion. But it would be plain rude to talk about all the pain and not include how light Wilson always felt around House, such a stark constant to the weight he seemed to lug around all day.  
House was also the only one who had been through Sam, Julie, and Jocelyn, and all the countless girlfriends. Sometimes Wilson wondered if all the space for commitment in his heart had been taken up by House. But then Wison started pretending to wonder if he would drop everything for him, and he didn’t like the answer he already knew, so he tried to stay away from the subject.  
Wilson shivered, and eyed the broken window with distaste.  
Perhaps it was House's flaws that drew Wilson towards him- in the presence of imperfection, Wilson felt safe enough to be flawed himself, not the one-dimensional perfect man he forced himself to be around his wives. Another chill swept through him. “That’s it,” he declared, wrapping the blanket around his shoulder and standing up. The floor was cold on his feet, and it seemed to send a chill that reached his entire body.  
Wilson hobbled over to the stairs, and stomped his way up to House’s room. The blanket kept falling off, but at least it got warmer the farther away he got from the window. He pushed open the door to House’s room and stumbled to the bed.  
Wilson sunk a knee onto the warm, squishy surface, before climbing under the covers. He let out a sigh of relief. Oh, the warmth!  
“Wha?” House was beside him- this was his bed, after all. He patted the air, searching for Wilson’s face. House propped his head up and raised an eyebrow.  
“I can’t sleep. It’s freezing down there.”  
“You know where the floor is.”  
“I’m sleeping here.”  
“Aw, does someone want to cuddle?” House’s tone is completely free of emotion.  
“It’s cold!” Wilson said furiously. A blush was spreading across his cold cheeks, he was very aware of how close House’s entire body was to his, and how his hand was resting on Wilson’s face. “And you left me basically outside with nothing but a blanket!”  
“Mm,” House grumbled, flopping back down. “Grow a pair, won’t you?” but he scooted over nonetheless. At least Wilson had brought another blanket.  
“Thank you,” Wilson turned over on his stomach and snuggled into the pillow.


	3. Day 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just learned how to italicize things on ao3 (yay!) so this will be the first chapter to actually have anything in italics. If I have time, I'll change it on the others. Enjoy!

Orange Hand Cream

House woke up alone.  
On the bright side, it meant he didn’t have to face the embarrassment of sleeping by/next to/on Wilson. Unfortunately, it spared Wilson the same.  
Groggily, he pushed himself to a sitting position. Wilson was in the bathroom- House could see his reflection in the mirror, putting on his...spotted bowtie?  
“Hello,” House mumbled sleepily. Wilson jumped.  
“Hi- uh- morning!” apparently not finding anything better to say, Wilson turned around, hands behind his back and a false smile on his face.  
“Wilson, you and your obsession with being an anomaly,” House muttered before he had the sense to stop himself.  
“Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll try not to be an anomaly next time,” Wilson huffed.  
“Good,” House grumbled. Fucking Wilson. It wasn’t just that he blow-dries his hair (who blow dryers their hair?), or wears outrageous ties, it’s that look- that look in his eyes, when he laughs with House, when he smiles, when he listens to House play piano, something competitive, but also tender, mixed with something else all his senses told him to stay far, far away from.  
But he never did.  
Ug. These were too heavy thoughts for first thing in the morning- House shoved them away. “It smells like orange.”  
“Does- does it?”  
House raised an eyebrow, and began limping down the stairs. “What did you do?”  
“Nothing- okay, fine, I made orange macarons and I didn’t want to share.”  
“Fuck, it’s cold!” House yelped as he entered the kitchen.  
"Ha!" Wilson said triumphantly, pointing his finger at House with a wild grin on his face, as if he had won. "I told you! That's what you get for putting me through a window."  
"I did not 'put you through a window’," House sniffed. "That was your own doing."  
"It was not."  
House ignored this, and instead focused on the much more pressing issue. He inhaled deeply, noting how it only smelled of cold. “If you made macaroons, why does it smell like orange in the bathroom and bedroom, but not the kitchen?”  
“I…” Wilson swung his hands helplessly. House caught onto one of them.  
“It’s soft,” he accused. “Like your cancer kid’s smooth little heads.” Then it dawned on him. “James, you didn’t.”  
A smile spread across Wilson’s face. “I did.”  
“No!” House flung a hand across his forehead. “Not orange hand cream!”  
“It was an accident!”  
“Do you even love me anymore?”  
House said it jokingly, but Wilson noticed he was holding on firmly to his hand. There was a moment of silence, in which they both did their best not to let the situation become serious.  
“Always,” Wilson whispered.  
“Good,” House nodded.  
“Now can I have my hand back?” The tone changed again.  
“Just make macaroons, and no one gets hurt.”  
“You slept in my arms!”  
House paused. It occurred to him that, with Wilson’s track record of snuggling, combined with the fact that he got up first, this could be true. “Fitfully.”  
Wilson rolled his eyes. “We speak of this to no one. And I am not making macaroons.”  
“You are so making macarons. But, agreed,” House said, and began mentally composing a list of people to speak it to. 

Car Ride

Wilson snuck a sidelong glance at House.  
He had been uncharacteristically quiet- eyes watching the road, as though expecting it to attack at any moment. Wilson wasn’t sure he had even seen House pay this much attention when he was driving.  
Wilson pursed his lips, so hard he thought he tasted blood. He knew more than anyone- except maybe House- that life was, for lack of better word, rude, but this was- this was almost too much. Wilson was being taunted- he had finally gotten the bone he had been chasing, at the price of knowing it was all just temporary. That was almost worse.  
He wanted to run his fingers through House’s short hair, and rub his bristly face. As stupidly awfully wonderful as it sounded, he wanted to come home to House. He wanted to make dinner with him and wake up by him, to annoy him with his blow dryer every single day he could.  
It was just plain rude that he slept right next to him, that he was so close, but still managed to be far away. He wanted, he wanted- Wilson ran his finger through his hair despairingly- he wanted it to be real.  
It was a cruel, cruel twist of fate. 

~~~

House did not believe in fate.  
He was a man of science, and found such things both harmful to fact and utterly ridiculous. Still, House had to admit that things were falling into place.  
He had known he loved Wilson for a long time- what kind of person bails someone out of jail, just because he thinks they’re cute? But since House had a PhD in repressing feelings, it never seemed relevant.  
Now was a different matter.  
Now, he woke up smelling like Wilson, as if being in his mind all the time wasn’t enough. He was surrounded by all the symptoms that Wilson was in the house- the sound of his God-awful blow dryer, of him clipping his nails, that ridiculous obsession with scented toiletries. It was all around him, like a cold he couldn’t shake off, or going to bed without showering the sweat off. But… House wouldn’t mind at all if he didn’t know that it was all just….temporary.  
It wasn’t like they hadn’t lived together before. But this time was different, for reasons House wasn’t entirely sure. He felt different. And he hated it.  
He remembered laying on his stomach with Stacy, trying to catch a rat. Was that real love? If it was, what was this? Something about it was different- maybe because he didn’t have to catch Wilson.  
He never did. Wilson was practically falling into his arms, left and right- if he was being honest, they both were. House wasn’t sure what either of them would do without it. 

Hand Holding

House walked into the office with Wilson’s hand firmly clasped in his.  
He wasn’t sure when the hand holding started- sometime in the elevator, maybe, when Wilson was swinging his hands, or during the walk into the building, when Wilson was juggling his keys. Wilson seemed surprised, but didn’t protest- although he kept on getting redder the further they went into the building. House would have let go long ago if he wasn’t such a drama queen. (Multiple personnel had gasped; the nurse at accounting -what was her name? Thea? Talia?- had even fallen over.)  
Foreman, Cameron, and Chase all look up, surprised.  
Foreman arched an eyebrow.  
House turned to Wilson. “Bye, honey,” he said mockingly.  
Wilson turned bright red. He looked ready to die from embarrassment. “House, you are acting like a child. Stop trying to publicly humiliate me into baking for you.”  
Was this what House was doing? Neither of them knew. (Although Wilson would probably bake anything at this shade of red.)  
Cuddy strode in. “House, did you-” She stopped when she saw the hands, and quickly backed out of the room, as if she had seen the two naked. “You don’t care about the patient, I’ll talk to you later.”  
Muffled snickers came from House’s subordinates.  
Sometimes, House reflected, life could be truly beautiful.  
“You could get out of clinic duty with this card up your sleeve,” Wilson observed, “But please, don’t ever do this to me again.”  
House smiled at him.

The Plainsboro-Princeton Family 

House very much considered his diagnostics team his children.  
Not in the way that he loved them unconditionally or anything- far from it-, but in the sense that they were endless devoted to them, despite how cruel he was. They would backstab each other for the mere thought of being his favorite. They constantly questioned him, but did what he wanted anyway. House liked to have that power.  
The one time House had brought this up, he had instantly regretted it. All three of the little buggers raised their eyebrows, and Wilson, who had the fortune of being in the room at the same time, had said, “I thought we weren’t gay?”  
To which House had responded, “I don’t know, honey, are we?”  
And Wilson had turned a satisfying shade of red.  
Much like he had two days ago. House had bought him a reservation to a restaurant he had always wanted to go to. If House had cared, he would know, somewhere, that Wilson was upset that House didn’t buy it for them. Them, an actual couple! The idea was laughable.  
Living in the same house? Bickering over who did the dishes? Constantly having to tell people about their relationship?  
Oh, wait.  
But still. Holding someone’s hand, or even sleeping the same bed, didn’t qualify as gay, just like his coworkers weren’t his children.  
“House!” Cameron tossed a file at him. “You can’t do this!”  
“Do…”  
“Foreman wants to do a biopsy based on your medical conclusion of “everyone lies and he’s cheating on her.”  
“Eh. It’s been way too long since we've taken a piece of someone’s brain.”  
“You can’t be serious. They could be in love. Or, she could have eclampsia, in which case we need to look into autoimmune disease,” Cameron argued.  
House wrinkled his nose. “They could, but that would be no fun. Do the biopsy.”  
Cameron pursed her lips. “Fine.” She turned to leave, but then stopped for a second, sniffing the air.  
“You smell….nice,” she said suspiciously.  
“Doctor Cameron!” House said theatrically. “We’ve talked about these inappropriate comments.”  
“Like citrus body wash,” Cameron looked utterly dumbfounded. “Or hand cream.”  
“Horrible fruit salad massacre. Don’t want to talk about it.” She still didn’t move. House flapped a hand at her. “Go on, shoo. That biopsy isn’t going to do itself.”  
Cameron blinked incredulously, but wheeled out of the office.  
House sniffed his collar.  
Lesson learned- don’t use Wilson’s (ridiculous, excess) toiletries on work nights. 

To Mark 

House firmly believed in marking his territory. He tried not to resort to urine unless absolutely necessary (although Wilson already had this particular angle covered- House really didn’t think that prank through.) but he was not above claiming the couch. (It smelled like Wilson.) (Is that what House smelled like now? Like fruit and oranges and warmth?) (Ha. As if House could ever be warm.)  
“Move.”  
House opened one eye. “My leg hurts.”  
“Then take some Vicodin and move over.” Wilson crossed his arms, and House felt a rush of rage at Wilson’s untucked shirt and bright tie and soft hair and stupidly expressive eyebrows.  
How dare he just stand there, as if he didn’t know the power he held? How dare he just walk in and make House _feel?_  
“I’m going to bed,” House said abruptly, getting up. So much for claiming what was his.  
“Fine,” Wilson muttered, turning the TV on. Any other day it was just House being childish, but today it hurt, for reasons he couldn’t (shouldn’t, wouldn’t) explain. He could hear House stomping up the stairs as loud as he could. Whatever. 

Thermostat 

Normally, Wilson would let House suffer. So, he stayed downstairs- drank a beer, watched a cooking show House hated, thought about what to name a cat, if he ever got one.  
But after a while, the cold began to creep in through that damn broken window, and Wilson once again abandoned the couch and his dignity and went upstairs.  
As he did, he thought of his time, last night, where he was doing almost the exact same thing. That morning, he woke up with House wrapped around him, practically holding him like a teddy bear. It was awful. And wonderful. And a million other things, the most important of which was an accident.  
He wasn’t in House’s bed because they were sharing it, or in a relationship, it was because it was too cold downstairs.  
Wilson paused.  
Was it?  
The tile wasn’t bitting his feet. His nose wasn’t red and dripping. Wilson hurried up the stairs and burst into House’s (already dark) room.  
“It’s warmer,” he said suspiciously.  
“I’m sleeping,” the bed replied.  
“It’s warmer,” Wilson repeated, stumbled through the darkness and sitting on the bed. He could see House’s shape, laying on his side and illuminated by the street lights coming in through the window.  
House sighed. “How acute of you.”  
“Did you fix the window?”  
“No.”  
“House!” Wilson said, exasperated. “You need to call your landlord, or insurance, or something! You broke the window.”  
“No, you did,” House muttered.  
“Yes, I got injured when I crashed through your house as a result of you speeding and being reckless, I’m the bad guy,” Wilson said sarcastically.  
“Well, it’s your fault I sped.”  
“How is it my fault?”  
“You-” House stopped. He really didn’t want to explain this...feeling. “It is,” he grumbled, and shoved the covers off, groped for his cane, and stomped off. A moment later, he returned.  
“Thermostat is down again.”  
“What- no! That- that was nice. I liked it! It’s okay to do nice things for people, you know.”  
“Well, now you’ll just have to cuddle with me,” House said grumpily, and slide back under the covers.  
Wilson did not know what to make of that. 

Only What You Make Of It

It was silent, save the rushing of cars. Wilson could hear them roaring in the distance- with a rush, they came closer, and then the sound faded away again. He glanced over to House. He was on his side, facing away from Wilson. A pool of street light fell on his face.  
Wilson bit his lip.  
The one thing he always hated about sitcoms was the character development. Something major would happen to a character, they’d grow from it, and then in the next episode, they were in almost exactly the same place. That’s what it felt like- they kept on having moments- House buying him reservations (even if it was with his wife), his arms around Wilson, bringing ice for Wilson, and touching him- and then, the next moment, it was like nothing had changed between them. (Had something changed between them? Did he want it to?) He knew that it was supposed to happen over several seasons- but Wilson didn’t want to wait that long. He couldn’t wait that long.  
Suddenly, Wilson felt that rush again- to be bold, daring, to fuck the concequences. To not feed the dog, to get the girl. To prove your story is only what you make of it. “House,” he tapped on his shoulder.  
“What?” House didn’t turn around.  
“House,” Wilson tapped his shoulder again, a smirk on his face, a wave building inside of him.  
“What?” House turned around, glaring at Wilson. Wilson didn’t hesitate- he could see House’s eyes widen as he dipped his face down and kissed him.  
The world went white.  
Slowly, colors began flooding back- _redorangeyellow_ at House kissing him back, _greenbluepurple_ at Wilson rolling under, _pinkvioletindigo_ at House running his fingers through Wilson’s hair.  
“Fuck,” he panted.  
“Not now,” Wilson said. “We need to talk first.”  
“No, I mean- you.”  
Wilson thought he saw his point, but it was so much more fun to be misleading. “Fuck me?”  
“No- you manipulative bitch,” House grumbled, and kissed him again. All thoughts fell away.  
Had he ever been kissed like this? Passionate, thrilling, lips and tongues moving back and forth almost as if it was an argument.  
House broke away, lips hanging a breath away from Wilson’s. He leaned forward again, and Wilson thought they were going to kiss, but he rested his hand against Wilson’s shoulder. The air had changed between them- their entire relationship had just shifted, and neither knew where they stood.  
After a moment, House got up, off Wilson, and lay on his back. Wilson turned on his side, staring at House’s stubble- covered jaw and hoping he would get to kiss it.  
“Did you-” House cleared his throat. He was staring at the ceiling, but whenever Wilson looked down at the covers and back up, House’s eye quickly flitted away from him. “Did you want to do that for- for a long time?”  
Wilson ran his fingers down House’s face. He thought of the tie, that morning, what seemed like a lifetime ago. I burnt my toast for you. He thought of that disastrous dinner- both of them for that matter. How much it hurt. “Yes,” he whispered. “Didn’t you?”  
House turned over, so the two men were staring face-to-face. Lined up, shoulder-to-shoulders and leg-to-leg and feet-to-feet. Wilson studied the look on House’s face, different than he had ever seen before. After over a decade of practical jokes, had he ever been rewarded with an expression like this?  
“Yes.”  
“Why didn’t you?” Wilson said, although he thought he already knew the answer.  
House shrugged. “Why didn’t you?”  
“I did,” Wilson laughed.  
There was a tense moment of silence.  
“See, this is why I didn’t want you in my bed,” House grumbled. “The moment you come up here, it’s going to be charged with sexual tension.” Wilson thought he saw him smile. “On the other hand, if we can..release that, it doesn’t matter too much.”  
The words fell comfortably over them, but neither made a move.  
“You’re going to run away,” House said suddenly. “You’re just here to get out of a bad marriage, because you want a new fixer-upper.”  
“Run away?” Wilson laughed bitterly. _Please, I want to keep this. I want to keep you._ “Who would I run away to, and why? It’s you- I’ve always come back to you.”  
“It’s you,” House said breathlessly, with a hand to his heart. (Wilson could hear the thud of his hand against his chest. “It’s always been you, Jimmy.”  
“Really.” Wilson stared. “This is the time to mock teenage girls.”  
House cleared his throat, having the decency to look ashamed of himself. “I- it is though, isn’t it?”  
Wilson stared at him for a long time, so long, House was worried he would change his mind. He wondered if Wilson was thinking what he was thinking- of all their fights, of the cruel words they hurl at each other- but also- I need you to tell me you love me, of every joke, every laugh and smile the two have shared, of I love you, of I was worried your wings would melt, that look in Wilson’s eyes when House is singing or playing the piano.  
Wilson thought of that feeling when Foreman pointed out that House picked up a case just because he thought it was interesting, how House generally discards ever diagnostic opinion but Wilson’s. He thought of House bringing him an ice pack- that had been a Moment, right?-, of House turning up the thermostat when Wilson said he was cold (and then turning it down, because he was a dumbass.) He thought of them holding hands this morning, of that feeling that was buzzing through his body whenever he was close to House.  
If there was one thing I am utterly certain they were both thinking, it would be, without a doubt- _am I everything to you, as you are to me?_  
“We fight,” House said hallowly.  
“We always do. We’ll get through it.” When House was silent, Wilson pressed on: “Listen, I don’t think our relationship will be...conventional. It’s not going to be like other relationships we’ve had, but it’s-”  
House was staring at him intently, the look in his eyes nothing close to innocent.  
Wilson swallowed. “Well, it’s- us,” he finished in a rush. “Really, we’ve always been us. Even if it’s weird. But as long as it’s us, I don’t care.”  
“I can deal with weird,” House said softly. “It’s what I do.”  
With that, he pressed his lips against Wilson’s. House twined his fingers through Wilson’s hair, hands keeping down his back, moving their mouth against each other.  
“I’ll take that as a yes, then?” House could feel Wilson’s lips, moving to make the words against his own.  
He smiled. Smiled! A grin broke out on Wilson’s face, and he couldn’t help the hitch in his breath. _This. This is where I want you._  
“Affirmative.”


	4. Day 4

With You

It was quiet when House woke up. Wilson was still asleep- his body was sprawled across the bed, with one leg resting on House. He gave it a sidelong look.  
Hallucination-Wilson had said that House associated everything physical as bad. That a caring touch from a… what was Wilson? A loved one was the same to House as the pain in his leg.  
House's subconscious was harsh.  
But....could it be true? Medically, it was certainly possible. He remembered how surprised and uncomfortable he had felt when Wilson's warm, solid body had touched his after the window mishap. But also..curious. Mildly pleasant, even. But that was Wilson. Wilson knew everything about House- he didn't really count as people.  
Maybe that was what made him perfect. House had so few people in his life, it probably wouldn’t hurt to at least look like he cared about them.  
(Spoiler alert: he did. Much more than he was willing to admit- at least this morning, this day.)  
That was yet another thing about Wilson- when they spoke, it was like language took a different meaning, just for them. Wilson knew what House was really meant, even if he didn’t always say it, even if it just like House being House to others. It was like their relationship was made in a different code than most.  
Ug. There went Wilson, infiltrating all of House’s thoughts again. But.. if Wilson was there to disrupt him in real life… maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. The thought brought a smile to House’s face.  
Wilson rolled over, pushing his head into House’s shoulder. After a moment, his eyes flickered open.  
“You’re smiling,” Wilson said in horror.  
House blinked. “You’re breathing.”  
“It’s concerning!” Wilson mumbled sleepily, wrapping an arm around Houes’s torso and humming with content. There was something about being touched that made him almost purr. At first, House stiffened, but...it was Wilson. He could work with that.  
“To see me happy?” House said into Wilson’s hair. “That’s low, James, low.”  
“So you are happy?”  
He paused to consider this. “With you. That is..if..” he pushed the words out. “If you are?”  
Wilson looked up, and kissed House’s nose. “With you.”

11:31 am

Wilson came into House’s office at 11:31 am precisely.  
He would rather die than admit it, but he looked through the window once an hour, just to make sure they didn’t need anything. Yes, it was pathetic, and most of the time they were fine, but his perfect entrances- holding the exact file they needed, or even just his medical advice- made it all worth it. Life wasn’t a movie, or a TV show, or even a fairy tale, but this was the closest thing to a scripted entrance he was ever going to get.  
“No,” House was saying when he walked in. In this particular case, Wilson was not needed- no one was close to tears, or about to punch anyone else- but there was the possibility he was wanted. He was willing to take that chance.  
“I don’t like that opinion, next,” House trolled, tapping his marker on the whiteboard. He almost jumped when he saw Wilson cautiously entering the room. “Ah, Wilson,” he recovered smoothly. “Nice to see you here.”  
Wilson raised an eyebrow. “As if I didn’t make you breakfast, or drive you to work, or give you that coffee,” he pointed to the thermos by House’s spot at the table.  
“You wanted to do that!”  
Wilson paused. “Well-well, you don’t do the dishes!” (He could hear House’s colleagues fighting a snicker, something he tried dutifully to ignore.)  
“Which you wanted to do,” House reminded him. Wilson couldn't argue with that, even if he wanted to, and House knew it. He raised his eyebrows and cocked his head left, towards his minions. Wilson smiled, and he took a step close and pulled his thumbs through Wilson’s belt loops.  
House arched an eyebrow, and, both of them fully aware of what they were doing, dipped his head and lightly planted a kiss on Wilson’s jawbone.  
The sound of silence was astoundingly loud.  
“Are they all staring?” Wilson muttered, House’s head blocking his view of Cameron, Chase and Foreman.  
“Yup.” House turned to his subordinates, straightening up. “Well, when a doctor and a doctor love each other very much…”  
Cameron’s mouth dropped into an ‘o’. Foreman, predictably Foreman, didn’t blink. Chase’s grin was as big as the hospital.  
“Finally!” he exclaimed. House chose to ignore this. They all looked like they had seen a mythical creature in broad daylight- something they always wished was real, but knew it wasn’t.  
“I’m so happy for you,” Cameron actually did look happy for them, damnit.  
“Well, don’t go getting all mushy on me,” House said gruffly (arguably being the one getting mushy.)  
“You’re...not surprised,” Wilson deducted, staring at House’s colleges. Chase and Cameron were beaming at them, and Foreman was sorting through files with a slight smirk on his face.  
“Are you?” he asked.  
“Yeah- I mean, it’s weird that we’re even friends, let alone in a loving relationship,” Wilson protested.  
“Nah,” Foreman continued stacking the files. “I mean, you’ve been each other’s- what are you you?”  
Wilson looked at House and shrugged. “Not ‘boyfriend.’ That makes us sound like seventh graders.”  
“Well, ‘partners’ sounds like your old relative’s poorly disguised homophobia.”  
“Partners... in crime?”  
“Partners in crime,” House repeatedly slowly. Wilson smacked him playfully. “Forget it, even if we find something suitable you’ll make it-” he shuddered. “Not.”  
“So.” Foreman raised his eyebrows.  
“Side bitches,” House decided, “continue.”  
“You’ve been each other’s side bitches for years.”  
“This could cause a stir, though,” Chase said thoughtfully. Did Chase do anything thoughtfully? Well, if he did, this was what it looked like.  
“Why, because we’re _gay?”_ House snorted.  
“Bi, actually,” Wilson corrected under his breath.  
“No, because you’re the heads of the oncology and diagnostics department.”  
“They have beef,” Cameron finished. House may have started this- a couple drinks out, or even his normal arrogance at parties ticked people off for some reason. Combined with the fact that several cancer patients (and staff, for that matter) had filed complaints against him for “harassing” them- well, you get the picture.  
“Not anymore,” House grabbed Wilson’s waist again. It wasn’t like he cared about whatever hospital social dynamics.  
“I don’t think that’s how it works, actually..” Foreman murmured.  
“Hey,” House said. “Some diagnosticians date oncologists. Get over it.” 

What Should I Wear?

“This date is boring,” House declared.  
“This isn’t a date,” Wilson said, turning two shampoo bottles in his hand and refusing to meet House’s eyes.  
“Then why did you invite me?”  
“I didn’t,” Wilson said, exasperated. “I said ‘I’m going to the store, do you want to come?’, and you said ‘no, stay here,’ so I left and then you followed me.” It took every inch of his self-control to not roll his eyes, but he was determined to act more interested in which shampoo to buy than House. (Although a tiny voice in the back of his head was mirroring House: this store was boring. It wasn’t like he wanted to go to the store almost straight after work. But they needed to eat and have clean hair, so House and the voice would just have to suffer.)  
“Oh, right,” House plucked a bottle from Wilson’s hand. “Your head does not need to be this clean.”  
“That one’s rose-scented, and that one is ocean breeze! It’s an important decision,” Wilson protested, feeling a flush on his neck and cheeks.  
House set the rose in the cart.  
“Are you sure?”  
“Yes. You’ll be a new woman after this.”  
“Thank goodness,” Wilson set the ocean breeze bottle back. House said something, so softly Wilson couldn’t hear him.  
“What did you say?” He asked, grabbing the matching conditioner.  
“I said, ‘why not?’” House responded, looking unusually sober.  
“Why not….what?”  
“Why not go on a date,” he said quietly.  
“You don’t want to go on a date,” Wilson said disbelievingly. “.... Do you?”  
“Those are almost the exact words I used.”  
“Oh. Okay,” Wilson’s forehead was scrunched up, but House could see how pleased he was. “Um..when?”  
“Now? If- if that works for you?” House looked uncharacteristically...shy?  
“Okay,” Wilson smiled, remembering just a few days ago, when House had handed him those reservations for dinner with someone else. They were at such a different point now, it was almost funny. “What should I wear?” 

It’s a Date

It was seven thirty-one, and House was late.  
Late.  
It wasn’t unlike him, it was just- well Wilson thought things had changed. Not that he had changed, just his tardiness. He had asked Wilson out- that was something. And the look on his face- Wilson smiled to his water glass. It was tender, shy- dare he say loving? Regardless, it was something he rarely saw on House. It looked nice.  
Wilson glanced at his watch again. 7:32. Their date was supposed to start at seven, but House still hasn’t shown up. Had he stood Wilson up?  
Well. It wasn’t like their last time out went so well.  
But this was different.  
It had to be.  
Wilson looked up from the menu (the classic question of chicken or beef?): and there he stood.  
He was wearing a suit, with a tie, cuffed sleeves, and everything. His hair was oddly well-groomed, and his face was clean-shaven. House didn’t even shave for formal events, Wilson thought in disbelief -which was apparent by the razor nicks on his face. Weight on his good leg, House raised an eyebrow. Wilson felt his heart flutter like a stupid schoolgirl crush. Scratch that, it _was_ a schoolgirl crush, and he was proud of it. Anything to be with House.   
“Hello,” he sat down across from Wilson. “I’m here for a Mr James Wilson.”  
Wilson raised his eyebrows. “It’s ‘doctor’, actually.”  
House smoothed his tie. “My mistake.”  
“You’re late,” Wilson huffed.  
House’s eyes drifted down to the table. “I’ll pay for dinner.”  
It was an apology, as they both very well knew, and it set the table right again.  
“So, tell me about you,” Wilson said, a smile touching his lips.  
“Well, I’m a doctor who frequently gets sued for medical malpractice. I’m addicted to pain medicine, conflict, and soap operas.” House paused. “I’m not Jewish, though- could that be a problem?”  
“Yeah,” Wilson grimaced. “My mom only lets me date Jewish drug addicts.”  
House clucked his tongue. “Shame. We had such a spark.”  
A waiter appeared at House’s elbow. Apparently deeming him the dominant one in the relationship, he handed House a glass to taste. House sniffed it, swirled it around, and finally tasted it when Wilson kicked his (good) leg under the table. He nodded. “This will do.”  
The waiter disappeared, and then came back a moment later. “Are you ready to order?”  
“Yes,” House said, eyes on Wilson. “I’ll have the medium-rare steak with potatoes.” He looked down at the menu, and spoke again just as Wilson was beginning to open his mouth. “And a lemon pepper chicken with a side salad for the lady, please.”  
The waiter nodded and scurried away; Wilson beamed. He knew House was trying to be annoying, showing him how well he knew Wilson, but Wilson thought it was kinda cute.  
“You-” Wilson hesitated, and ducked his head- House was looking at him almost tenderly. “You look nice.”  
“It’s a date,” he said quietly.  
Wilson felt a wild smile bloom across his face. “Yeah,” he said empathetically, remembering all the times House had used the words ‘I got us dates,’ just not with Wilson. This time was different. This time was right. “It is.” 

Stop Running

Wilson didn’t expect the date to last this long.  
But it had. They had eaten dinner, and afterwards, House brought them to a park, where they had walked around, and then gone back in the car when Wilson was convinced an ax-murdur was about to pop out of the bushes. Then, House had driven him to Sonic and bought them milkshakes. Wilson was freezing, but somehow House’s motorcycle jacket had appeared on his shoulders.  
“House,” Wilson murmured. “Thank you.”  
“For?”  
“For the date and everything.” Wilson shrugged helplessly. “For the ice cream.”  
“Milkshakes,” House corrected.  
“I just want you to know you don’t have to do this all the time. Even if it’s staying at home and watching a movie- I’m-I’m good with that.”  
“I wanted to bring you here,” House said cautiously. “You know that, right?”  
Wilson met his eye. “Yeah. And it’s-it’s really nice.” He seemed almost tentative, as if waiting for House to say: ‘No, it’s not. I hate you, go home.’ That when House realized he needed to do this whole thing more often.  
“I love you,” he said suddenly, so quietly Wilson had to strain to hear him. His eyes fell to the floor. Wilson stretched a hand out, and ran his thumb over House’s rough chin. His eyes twinkled. “Say it again.”  
“I love you, you manipulative bitch,” House said, louder. Satisfaction spread across Wilson’s face. (House would have hated him if he didn’t love it when Wilson was arrogant and cocky like this.)  
Wilson thought of Spot and Jocelyn. Poor things. He wasn't right for them- by comparison, he and House were made for each other. He thought of himself chanting _I love my wife, I love my wife,_ in this very car. He thought of Spot, weighing on his mind for the last couple days. He thought of Jocelyn’s words: _He’s more of your partner than I am. I don’t want to be second best to some grumpy doctor you have a crush on._ Wilson wasn't entirely sure why he and House fit together so well- he was going back to the fate idea- but it didn't matter if she wasn’t in the equation.  
He thought of House. How he said everyone lies, but didn’t follow his own advice. How he pretended not to care, but threw himself into relationships full-heartedly. How they had been running around, coming back to each other when their hearts got broken when maybe- maybe they were meant to be with each other the whole time.  
“I love you, too,” Wilson whispered. It seemed so perfect, with the stars all around them and House’s huge, blue eyes locked on his.  
“Let’s get a cat,” he said suddenly.  
House raised his eyebrows. “Alright.”  
“Alright?”  
“But I’m not cleaning up any poop,” he said as he plucked Wilson’s milkshake from his hand.  
“Hey!” Wilson protested.  
House continued drinking his milkshake. Wilson rolled his eyes and tried to reach for House’s, but he pulled it away. Even though the gesture was annoying, it was them, even if them had changed.  
“So that’s how you recover the conversation from your best friend of many years admitting they’re in love with you.” It wasn’t a surprise, though- this had always been there, just buried behind a mountain of other feelings Wilson didn’t want to sort through. Love. Not just makeouts, or sex, or milkshakes, but love.  
“Agg,” House buried his head in his hands. “I already regret that.”  
“But...it’s true, isn’t it?” Wilson raised his eyebrows.  
House looked up. “Undoubtedly.”  
Wilson gave the fragility of the moment a second to recover, then: “You _looove_ me.” And Wilson loved House. It all made sense now, how those looks in between them translated to something else- not new, or different, but it did amount to something.  
“Shut up,” House groaned.  
They sat in all the words they never thought they’d say for a moment. So this was that feeling that was buried beneath all the rest. The one that tore him apart and gave him purpose.  
This is what he had been running from- House buying him a milkshake on their date and then drinking it.  
_Okay,_ Wilson concluded, a smile on his face, _maybe you can take some control over your destiny._

Forever

Sleep looked so good on Wilson.  
There was something about the way his face was relaxed that made House realize how tight it normally was- something magical about seeing his jaw loose and his forehead no longer scrunched up.  
He always thought the idea of watching someone while they slept was creepy, (see: Twilight) but Wilson looked so perfect, House couldn’t resist.  
Well. It wasn’t like they were Edward and Bella.  
House knew he and Wilson weren’t exactly the next trending ship. They weren’t cute bunnies, or even supernatural creatures, finding first love. They were old, tried men with scars all over them. They had had their hearts broken too many times to count.  
But something about this felt different. Maybe it was because Wilson had been there for all of House’s heartbreak, so he knew to treat it more carefully than the people before him.  
We really are each other’s liferaft, House mused as his fingers traced a circle on Wilson’s back. Even though Wilson’s savior complex was annoying- well, it was necessary, considering how it was part of what kept them together. (If Wilson was awake, he would have protested this, but somewhere, he knew it was true.) Empathise on part: the words I love you, too, had been playing over and over in House’s head, and he smiled to himself.  
The hall light was still on, and it was shining on House’s eyes. Occasionally, a car rushed past, ripping away the quiet for a few moments. It was cold- House still needed to do something about that damn window- so their bed was layered thick with blankets. (Most of which had fallen off. Wilson kicked when he slept.)  
House wouldn’t trade it for the world.  
For one, it wasn’t like he particularly cared about the world.  
But he knew he cared about Wilson- as more than just his friend- and for the moment, that was all that mattered.  
There was a rustle- Wilson’s arms stirred, rising up, and then fell back onto House, who smiled faintly.  
“Am I dreaming?” Wilson rubbed his eyes sleepily.  
“Yes. Close your eyes, or you won’t get to the part with naked cheerleaders,” House said softly, drawing circles on his back.  
“No,” Wilson snuggled into House’s shoulder- he froze for a second, and then started stroking his soft hair. “This is better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. 
> 
> (Just to sneak a little shamless self-advertizing in there:  
> Come find me on:  
> tumblr:acca-be-the-same  
> wattpad: SermiaMagistre)


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